


part of you lives here.

by whisperedwords



Series: YingYang!verse [6]
Category: National Football League RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 07:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12338049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedwords/pseuds/whisperedwords
Summary: “I just—I wanted to. Apologize.” He rests his forehead on their twined hands for a moment before taking a deep breath to continue. “For—for this. For, uh,” he suddenly finds there’s a lump in his throat the size of Manhattan and he doesn’t think he can swallow it all the way. “For, uh, ending your season.”





	part of you lives here.

**Author's Note:**

> someone commented on my last fic that i should re-write something like this because of...you know. what happened. and i guess it helped. so i did. anyway, unless something absolutely absurdly romantic happens in the coming months, i doubt i'll be posting more of this 'verse any time soon. if you want to talk more about eli/odell, though, please. don't hesitate to [hit me up](http://grantgustin.tk/ask). i will always talk about them. i am always thinking about them.

“Hey.” Eli doesn’t think he’s ever felt as nervous walking into a hospital room in his life. Flowers in hand, forcing a smile even though his insides feel like they’re rotting, he peers into the room where his wide receiver is half-asleep, a ridiculous-looking pile of cards stacked on one of the bedside tables. Odell looks up at where Eli is standing and smiles, nods a couple times as reassurance to come in.

“Hiiii,” O says, turning so that he’s facing Eli and the doorframe. His voice is lofty, a reminder of how many painkillers he’s probably on because of the surgery. It makes E smile a little, at how loopy and ridiculous his right-hand man looks right now. O’s grin is a little goofy when Eli sits down next to him in the empty chair. Before he knows it, Odell is reaching for his phone, clumsily typing in his passcode. “Hey, c’mere, let’s—I wanna take a selfie for Instagram.” He waves Eli closer, reaches out with his big hand and firmly clasps the quarterback’s shoulder in an attempt to maneuver him properly.

It doesn’t work. Eli gently, gently rests his hand on Odell’s and peels it off, taking care not to let go of it but also implying a more personal conversation. Though probably high out of his mind, Odell picks up on it. He nods once, twice, puts his phone down face-down on the hospital bed’s side table. Eli wishes he could look at the younger man for more than a few moments at a time, but he can’t—the guilt is eating him _alive_ —and so he settles for squeezing Odell’s hand gently, their fingers twined.

“How are you feeling?” Eli doesn’t really know if his voice actually works when he asks the question—he’s been trying to smother down the emotion for hours now, sitting in his car, rehearsing what he would say to the man who he so _wronged_ —

“Gooooood.” Odell draws the word out, the silly smile on his face reappearing as his gaze flickers to their intertwined hands. “Better now that you’re here, boss.” He never calls Eli that—he _must_ be hooked up on morphine. Eli can’t help but crack a little smile at that.

“Probably not as good as Drake, but you know…” (Eli doesn’t have any kind of social media whatsoever but he’d seen the photos; he’d seen Drake sitting side-by-side with Odell, seen the two of them chatting like they’d meant to meet there, like it hadn’t been one absolutely tumultuous event that had ruined a season’s worth of possibility. The sight had hurt him, knowing how his own play had done all this.) His smile turns a little self-deprecating at that, and he looks down and shrugs, loosening his grip on Odell’s warm hand. His gaze returns to their fingers.

“Nah.” Odell almost blurts it in response, causing Eli to look up, startled. The receiver shakes his head. “You’re better than Aubrey a hundred percent.” The goofy smile has worn down into a more serious expression, something more concerned and less languid. O’s fingers tighten around his own. Eli wishes he hadn’t come to see this. “Made my day, coming by to see me.” The smile comes back quick. Eli’s stomach twists.

“I just—I wanted to. Apologize.” He rests his forehead on their twined hands for a moment before taking a deep breath to continue. “For—for this. For, uh,” he suddenly finds there’s a lump in his throat the size of Manhattan and he doesn’t think he can swallow it all the way. “For, uh, ending your season.”

“What?”

“I’ve, uh, I’ve been watching the tapes. From Sunday. And the throw I made, it was just—god, O, I shouldn’t have asked you to go for it, it was too high and we were fucked at that point anyway and.” Eli wipes at his eyes, suddenly aware that his cheeks are a little wet. “And now I’ve just, I fucked up and I got you hurt and I really. God. I’m so sorry I did that. I’m so— _fuck_.” He can’t continue. The lump is strangling him and he feels sick, he feels so sick watching the love of his life lie in this hospital bed with a broken ankle because of him. _His_ clumsiness. _His_ lack of skill. An entire future, gone.

“E…” Odell’s voice is still lofty and Eli knows he’s too drugged up to even process what’d just been said. He wishes it had been him. Wishes he’d taken the season-ending hit instead of Odell because at least then they’d still have life of some kind. Maybe then, Geno would show up and get the justice he deserves in the eyes of the Post. Maybe he’d even get to see Davis out there taking snaps. But that’s not how the world works. It hadn’t happened that way, and now, Eli thinks, he’s left with an offense that will probably get him killed before season’s end. (Maybe it’s justice for last season. For how good they’d been.)

“I’m so sorry I did this to you. I don’t even know what to say but it’s my fault and I just…I wanted to let you know that you’ve got, you know, every right to be mad or upset or whatever. I get it.” He clears his throat. “You don’t deserve this and I’m, I’m sorry.” Odell is silent. “I, uh, I bought these flowers so I’ll just leave ‘em here and let you rest up. Yeah?” He nods to himself as an answer and starts to get up.

Odell’s hand reaches out and grabs at his wrist. “Eli, don’t think that. Don’t think I’d—” he coughs, lets go of Eli’s wrist to sip from the water glass that had been set on his table. “Don’t think I’d think that, y’know? Because that’s all kinds of wrong.” His gaze is fully set on Eli’s face. Eli doesn’t even think he remembers how to breathe, O looks so earnest. “’s not your fault. We make those plays all the time, man. This shit happened before and you did the same damn thing and it’s not your fault. It’s not, Eli.” He grabs Eli’s wrist again, tighter this time. Pulls him a little closer to the bed. “I’m the one that went for it. You ‘n I, we’re in sync, you know? I felt the pass, I went for it, I got fucked. So what.” He gestures with his other hand to the ankle under wraps, his movement casual like he’s in the process of getting a massage instead of coping with season-ending surgery. “’s part of the game. You risk it. Shit, E, I saw you take hits Sunday that I didn’t think you’d get up from, y’know?”

“Oh, really?” He tries to be lighthearted but Odell shakes his head, tugs Eli closer by the wrist.

“Eli, please. Don’t blame yourself.” He sits up, leans towards Eli, presses his face into E’s shoulder despite the awkward position it leaves him on the hospital bed. Eli wraps his arms around Odell instinctively. His chest feels so heavy and tight. Odell’s face nuzzles into the crook of his neck. “’m sorry I don’t get to be with you out there now.” His voice is muffled but it breaks Eli’s heart anyway.

“Me too,” he replies quietly. He doesn’t say anything else—he can feel O sagging in his arms from the painkillers and knows nothing of this conversation is going to linger in his memory. With a deep breath, he lets go of the wide receiver, whose grin is back in full form, complete with droopy eyes and everything. Eli gets up. Odell’s face starts to fall. “Hey, I’m gonna go swing by Brandon’s room before he gets carted off. Get some rest, man.”

“Okay,” Odell replies. Eli hears the exhaustion in his voice. He smiles a little, despite himself. Shakes his head. Gets up and starts to walk towards the door. “Love you.”

Eli, heart in his throat standing in the doorway, turns to look at him. He forgets how to breathe for a beat or two. God, he doesn’t deserve this. He really—he can’t. There’s no way. “Love you too,” he finally replies.

**Author's Note:**

> title from [anne sexton's "a self-portrait in letters"](http://thelovejournals.com/post/166208366504/i-dont-care-i-love-you-anyhow-it-is-too-late-to). 
> 
> ps: from now on, this 'verse is going to be locked and reserved for only registered users. (apologies to anyone who this ends up slighting. thank you for your kindness towards my work. someday, i'll re-unlock this for everyone.)


End file.
